A stain on the ceiling
by J. Giglio
Summary: "Someone once joked that some birds went to their nests instinctively and that they had to look up in some encyclopedia if robins were one of those. They laughed at the time, but now he's considering if to be true." Takes place after "The Fix".


**A.N.:** A sort of brother piece to "The only one left". It's pretty much a stand-alone piece, though.

* * *

**a stain on the ceiling**

Dick should stay in the hospital, to make sure that La'gaan doesn't run away or break something or someone.

He doesn't stay.

He doesn't go after Conner either.

Instead, Dick makes sure to leave his suit and changes into something more civilian-friendly, goes to the nearest zeta-beam and booms himself away from the hospital, from La'gaan, from Conner's words. When he arrives, he's home.

He's supposed to be aware of his surroundings, but comes here driven by instinct rather than conscience. Someone once joked that some birds went to their nests instinctively and that they had to look up in some encyclopedia if robins were one of those. They laughed at the time, but now he's considering if to be true. He's standing somewhere between the exit of the cave – not _their _cave, that one had been blown up and now he's home but some of his team mates actually lost theirs – somewhere between the exist of Bruce's cave and the front door of the manor.

"Master Richard, how can I help you?"

Alfred's voice falls to his ears, almost as if the butler has been spying on him. Maybe he has. He's looking at Dick with that slightly arched eyebrow of his and pressed lips.

"I... I just thought... I need to..."

"I'll be taking some tea to your old bedroom, sir," Alfred says, and turns around, his dust fan suddenly losing importance. Dick turns around too, but goes the other way. He climbs the staircase, feeling the hardwood floorboards cracking under his weight. He used to be able to go up the stairs without making that sound, but he lost his touch. He doesn't know how long it's been since his last visit, and he certainly doesn't know when was the last time he went to the bedroom he had occupied growing up.

But it's just the same and he's not surprised. Alfred is anything but a slob. He just thought that maybe, with Tim staying over and Barbra taking a bedroom for occasional naps, the old butler wouldn't have time to keep this bedroom checked and clean. But he does. And the sheets on his bed smell just as fresh as the last time he laid there, and suddenly he's clutching the pillow under his bed until his knuckles can no longer stand.

"Master Richard, your tea, sir."

He nods as Alfred puts the silver tray on the nightstand, but doesn't get up. He's too busy looking at the ceiling and wondering how it ended up like this. Not his situation – no, _that_ he's trying to avoid – but the painting. There's a small, darker stain on the spot right over the headboard, and even though there has been painting done since he left, the stain remains. He remembers staring at it for far too long when he first arrived, unable to sleep. The bed was too comfortable, the sheets were too soft, the room was too quiet. Getting used to sleeping there, and not on the circus, had been the most difficult. Training and the job, not that hard. It got easier, with time. The sleeping in the manor, not the training. Definitively not the job.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"Me neither," he answers without thinking, and he's not surprised to see Bruce standing by the foot of the bed. He can't say he was expecting it. "Just needed some tea and some sleeping."

Not that he did either. The tea went cold and his eyes never closed, always focused on that damn stain. Maybe that was why it was so difficult to sleep there, at first. Because of that stain.

"I read your report. With all that is going on, I'd suggest you rendezvous with the team no later than..."

"My friends." Bruce doesn't ask what he's talking about, but he doesn't continue his advice. "They used to be my friends."

Not that Bruce cares, or even understands. What does he know about friends, anyway? An old English butler and kids running around, trying to learn _the job_, that are hardly his acquaintances. And the League? Dick's heard enough of Bruce's comments – or rather, he has read enough of Batman's notes – to know that most of them are just names and skills. Even the ones who are close to the dark knight hardly know who he really is. Not his secret identity, but the man who truly lies beneath the mask – that one usually scared the hell out of anyone. He's one that only the strongest people Dick knows can actually take .

"Used to?"

"Wally won't even pick up my calls, and I can't blame him. And now Conner is pissed and M'gann is in danger. I'm supposed to protect people, not break them."

Bruce takes a step towards him, but guards his straight posture. Only his eyes are cast downwards, and even without the white lenses, they look more like Batman's than Bruce's.

"They know the risks of the job. And you get the job done."

Dick sits up and sips the tea. It's gone bad but he drinks it anyway. The bitter taste it leaves on his mouth is no more than he deserves.

"I screwed up," he whispers, leaving the cup on the nightstand. "I thought I could..."

"Whatever it was you thought best for the team," Bruce cuts him off. "Is the best for the team. You're they're leader. They're _elected_ leader."

"Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I really shouldn't."

"Nobody is more qualified for the job, Dick. After Kaldur'ahm left, I'm sure your team mates had no doubts who should take the lead."

Dick cackles. Not his old cackle, the happy-go-lucky one. He's bitter, just like his tepid tea, and his cackle is one almost metallic to his ears.

"What would _you_ know? You weren't around that time, remember? You said it was best I took my own shots at everything!"

"I had and still have absolute confidence in the training you received."

"I was _seventeen_! Do you have any idea what _that_'s like?"

"You did what you had to do. You saw an opportunity and seized it. No one would blame you for that."

Dick feels his cheeks going cold. He looks at Bruce – really looks at him – and doesn't know what mask to put on.

"How do you...?"

"You're good, kid, but you're not the best."

The treatment irritates him, the idea that he's not the best does so even more.

"You've known all along?" Bruce doesn't say anything. Dick doesn't expect him to. "I've been holding this shit all along and _you knew_?" Still no answer. "I'm losing my friends and you never though about saying _something_?!"

"They are not your friends. They are your team mates. It's important you don't forget the difference."

"They _were_ my friends! I went to school with Artemis, I went to Wally's for games! I was with Conner the first time he went to a carnival! Do you know what that means?!"

Bruce doesn't wink. He doesn't move. He doesn't falter. Dick feels like sucker punching him.

"There's no such thing as friends in this job. There's the mission. And the best way to accomplish it."

"I don't want to _accomplish_ anything else. I want my friends back. I want..." He's the one who falters. He's feeling a lump on his throat and another on his chest. "I want them back! I want Mount Justice back, and our cave, and Black Canary training us and the meetings and the parties..."

He's breathing heavily, and not because he's tired. Bruce is emotionless, as usual, but his eyes as less hard, less stoney, less stoic.

"You can't. There's no going back," Bruce says. "You should be happy. You've accomplished great things. You're almost ready, Dick."

"Ready?"

"If anything ever happens to me, you're the one who can carry on. Take on the cowl and..."

"I don't _want_ to be the Batman. I don't want to be _you_!"

"Yet you're new uniform is a lot like my latest designs."

"I helped you with those!"

"And you sacrificed your friends for the sake of the mission."

Dick chokes. His mouth is still acrid, his tongue is heavy and his eyes are stinging. "This is not..."

"It is. It's precisely what you've done. And I'm not at all surprised. I always knew you had it in you."

"I don't..."

"I knew it was just a matter of time, for you to grow into the position. The failsafe exercise, it was..."

"Terrifying. Scarring. Traumatizing."

"It was you doing what you had to do. You just didn't have the stomach to admit it. To yourself and to others. Dinah knows it too, everyone knows it."

"She said she would never say anything that we talked about there!"

"She didn't."

And Dick's on his feet, holding Bruce by the collar of his shirt.

"What have you done to me?"

"Nothing, kid. You've done this yourself. You drove them away. You made them go from friends to team mates, Nightwing. You took on the job like nothing else. _You_ have transformed yourself from Dick to Nightwing."

Dick looks down to his hands, and they're black. No, he's wearing his gloves. He's sure he's changed before coming here, but he's still on his costume. The blue bird still flies on his chest. His eyes are still shaded by the white lenses.

"Congratulations, kid." And Bruce is suddenly older, he has wrinkles around his eyes and lips, his hair is gray near his temples, and a little less full. "You've made it. You're Batman."

The upper part of his face feels hotter, and he takes his hand to brush his hair back, but there's no hair on his forehead, only sleek rubber. The blue bird on his chest is gone, its place taken by a black bat on a dark gray suit. A cape drapes around his shoulders, weighting him down.

"I'm sorry, kid." Bruce's voice sounds distant. "I'm sorry you're me."

Dick wakes up with his own scream. He's laying down, staring at a dark stain on the ceiling, directly over his head.

He's sweating. He's crying. He's clutching his chest. He's all alone.

The tea on his nightstand's gone cold. Night has fallen.

"Bruce's off planet, Bruce's off planet, Bruce's off planet," he repeats to himself, loud enough only for his ears to catch the sound.

When his heart settles and his breathing is calmer, he stands up and looks around. This is home. But so was Mount Justice.

"Where are you going, master Richard?" Alfred asks him, when he dashes off to the cave to catch the zeta-beam.

"To make things right, Alfred," he says, and shakes his head. "I should at least try to."

The bright light engulfs Dick and he misses the hopeful smile that rises from Alfred's lips to his eyes.


End file.
